


The Darkness in Avery Manse

by Freya_Ishtar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Gen, Ghosts, Haunting, Horror, Spooky, magic addiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-10-03 23:46:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17293613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freya_Ishtar/pseuds/Freya_Ishtar
Summary: When Antonin is offered probation—a few years of manual labor rather than rotting for life in Azkaban—he takes it. He has no idea Hermione Granger is his supervising Auror, with a mind to keep him from ever seeing freedom. He also has no idea that when night falls on the property he's tasked with fixing up, it becomes a place even ghosts dread to dwell. SPORADIC UPDATES





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes:
> 
> 1) No one will be surprised that this idea was inspired by watching The Haunting of Hill House with Michiel Huisman. This story is not based on the series, or even the novel, it was simply "Hey, look, Antonin's in a haunted house story! There should be an Antonin haunted house story. *two minutes later* Dammit, there's going to be an Antonin haunted house story." So, don't expect the two stories to be similar, other than that they take place in big, spooky properties, are ghost stories, and, well, there's a planned character arc for Antonin that is direct homage to a subplot from the series. There is also a time jump-back in the opening, but that is the only place it happens, so the story will not jump back and forth in time periods, either.
> 
> 2) We will be harkening back to my horror story roots with this one (some of my fics dabble in it, but I haven't gone at a good, spooky-for-spooky's sake story in a while [those of you who remember The Scavengers know what I'm talking about]). So while it will have romance (and smut for those of you who are checking in because this is me writing Antomione, and you're hoping for the smutty-smutties ) it will also [hopefully] have you looking over your shoulder, feeling like you're suddenly 'not alone', or wanting to turn the lights on before reading updates.
> 
> Fancasts: Michiel Huisman as Antonin Dolohov; Chris Hemsworth as Thorfinn Rowle [brief appearance]; Idris Elba as Kingsley Shacklebolt (any characters not listed in the fancast roster are assumed to be portrayed by their film-canon actors).
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any affiliated characters, and make no profit in any form from this work.

**Chapter One**

Her breath rattled in her lungs as she looked about. Gripping her wand tight, she crept along the night-darkened corridor. Another crack of thunder had her pressing her lips together to keep in a startled sound.

The air, itself, seemed to have weight to it . . . seemed to press, thick and heavy, against her skin while she waited for some noise, some glimpse.  _Anything._

Anything that might tell her—

_Hermione!_

Jumping, she whirled in the direction of his voice, her wand out, ready to strike. "Antonin?" she whispered, her voice barely a breath of sound.

Nothing. Even as she gaped around at precisely where she thought she'd just heard his voice. Even as she could swear she  _felt_ someone standing right there before her.

A shadow slipped around one of the far corridors, and she didn't spare the burst of jittery fear that wound through her gut time to take hold. Gripping her wand tighter, still, she ran after the silhouetted figure.

Around darkened bends, through echoing passages, she followed, her heartbeat and her footfalls ringing in her ears. The further along she went trailing the shadow, the more certain she was where it was leading her.

And the more rapid that beating in her ears became.

Dashing around a corner, she came to a skittering halt. The shadow was nowhere to be seen, yet there at the end of the corridor, the ancient, Muggle-rendered portrait of Selyce Avery stared back at her.

Hermione swallowed hard, untrusting of her own eyes. She started toward the portrait at a measured pace, her wand at the ready. Nothing here, not even her own senses, was to be trusted.

As she reached the dead end of the corridor, gazing up at the beautiful, cold visage of that long-dead witch, she felt the toe of her shoe slip against the tile floor. Her face falling, she backpedaled a step and looked down.

" _Lumos_."

The small puddle glinted crimson in the light from her wand. There was nothing else—no droplets leading away, no smudges anywhere, just that lone puddle. Just that echo of Selyce, mocking her fear. Her heart thundered behind her ribcage as she looked up at the painting, once more.

Barely aware of her own words, her voice spilled out in a hushed murmur. "Give him back to me."

_"No."_

The toneless whisper in her ear, the feel of cold lips brushing her skin, had her spinning around. As she faced the empty corridor behind her, she heard the clatter of wood against tile.

Dropping her gaze, she saw the wand there. The one he'd been issued solely to assist him with his work, so he could hope to harm her with it. The one he'd refused to use under  _any_ circumstances.

That could only mean whatever had happened, it had been awful enough that he'd grabbed a weapon he had wanted nothing to do with.

She knelt down, slipping the fingers of her free hand around the provisionary wand. Her heart went cold in her chest. He'd held it, she could  _feel_ it. Wherever he was, whatever was happening to him, he'd been _so_  fearful of it, he'd tried for the one thing he swore he never wanted to do again.

Now, he had no way to protect himself against the hidden things here and whatever torments they were inflicting upon him this very moment.

And she wasn't sure she had any way to find him.

* * *

_**Three Months Earlier** _

"I'm serious, Minister Shacklebolt," she said, her voice stern. "Give me the job."

Kingsley arched a brow, the expression markedly severe as he clasped his hands atop his desk. She only addressed his so formally when she was signaling that she was already geared up for an argument. "Miss Granger, you despise Antonin Dolohov. Why on earth should I allow you to be his probation officer?"

"But Kings, please, that's exactly  _why_  it should be me!" The moment she saw Antonin Dolohov's name on the list of prospective prisoners for rehabilitation work, she knew she had to volunteer herself for the post. "I don't hate him. I  _am_  rightfully wary and afraid of him, yes, but those are not the same thing."

"You're really not winning this argument at the rate you're going."

Her shoulders slumped and her expression soured. "That's because I'm not finished, yet. Look, we all know how charismatic a Death Eater can be when they chose to. Anyone who doesn't have the sort of history with him that I do might be convinced by half-efforts. We can't afford that. I am the perfect person for this because I'll be especially critical of everything he says and does. I'll be hyper-vigilant in my observations and reports on how I think he's faring with his rehabilitation. I am the one person you can be sure will not sign off on Antonin Dolohov being released back into society unless he's  _truly_ no longer a threat to anyone."

Kingsley was quiet for a long while, merely holding her gaze in silence. Then, he sighed and swiped a hand down his face. "Bollocks, I should know better than to give you time to construct an argument. All right, the post is yours."

Hermione thanked the Minister and left, taking with her directions, a copy of the keys to the property Antonin Dolohov was to rebuild and renovate for his work-release probation, and a preset package of provisional supplies. She just barely managed to hide her smile. She hated lying to Kingsley, but it was only a partial lie. She was the best person to oversee his rehabilitation due to her past with Antonin Dolohov.

Because she was perfectly aware that Antonin Dolohov was beyond redemption, and this way, she would personally be able to ensure he was  _never_  let back out into the world as a free man.

* * *

"Merlin's fucking beard," Rowle groused after he was ushered into his cell, the door locked behind him.

From the cell beside his, Antonin looked up. "You're chipper as usual."

The hulking blond collapsed onto his back on the cold stone floor to glare up at the dank, drippy ceiling. "You were right. They offered me some ruddy work-release probation."

"You don't sound happy."

"It's the bloody Gaunt house. The place is a disaster. The floor will probably cave under me as soon as I set foot inside the door, and I'll die, right there, just like that. No traditional Viking funeral for me. Nope, gonna be killed by a shitty old building burying me alive."

"I's a bit dramatic, don't you think?" Antonin arched a brow. "And oddly specific."

Thorfinn shrugged against the floor, his expression as bleak as their surroundings. "What can I say? It's just not _me_  to do anything in half-measures. What about you?"

"Avery Manse."

Turning his head, Thorfinn pinned his fellow Death Eater with a curious gaze. "Who's that?"

Antonin snickered, kicking back on his broken down little cot and folding his arms across his chest. "Not a who, a what. It's the old Avery property. You wouldn't have heard of it; Ministry seized it during the First War, and only now they're getting around to dealing with it."

"Manse?" Thorfinn nodded to himself as he repeated the unfamiliar term a few times. "Manse. Manse. Nope, don't like the sound of it. Estate. Manor. Hall. . . .  _Anything_ sounds better than calling a house 'manse'."

"How quickly you remind me Durmstrang doesn't offer Muggle Studies. Manse is just what they call the house a church grants to it's minister. See, long time ago, I think after the Statute was enacted, the Averies thought it would be a kick to have power over Muggles by becoming 'of the cloth', as they say, since overt use of magic to intimidate them had become a crime. But, after they left the church, they refused to give the property back, claimed it was haunted, and they were really protecting the souls of any future ministers."

"Oh, please." Thorfinn snorted a chuckle. "Show me one place older than a decade that's not got a ghost or two."

Antonin shrugged and shook his head. "Muggles don't know that. Rumor has it that the Averies at the time used charms to make the house seem active if any of the clergy members ever visited. So, when the family insisted on keeping the place—for 'the sake of protecting the congregation'—the new minister was more than happy to let them keep it."

"Always thought that family was a bunch of slippery bastards."

"What are you gonna do? Take the offer to fix up the Gaunt place?"

Thorfinn sighed. "Don't know. I guess I'll just have to resign myself to  _not_ having a Viking funeral because a stupid house kills me. You gonna take the offer on Avery Manse?"

Closing his eyes, Antonin let out a sigh of his own. If the Ministry was trying to show they'd been the 'better side all along' by offering Death Eaters some from of probation, who was he to argue? "I suppose. I mean, I've never minded hard work, and the chance at freedom once the job is done instead of rotting in  _here_ 'til I die? I'm trying to find a downside, but I'm not sure there is one."

* * *

He looked at the property through the rusted gates as the Auror escorting him—fucked if Antonin could remember the bloke's name—removed the manacles from his wrists. The sight made him wonder if there was a chance to swap with Thorfinn for the house that might kill him with its crumbly floors.

Those rusted gates stood open onto an aged cobblestone path that had once probably been quite stunning but was now cracked and pitted in a most unattractive way. The house beyond was enormous, far larger of a property than he'd anticipated, with yawning windows boarded up long ago, their once splendid shutters hanging half off their hinges. A vaulted stone awning over the front doors had visible fractures and he felt as though he could already hear the way those doors would whine when he opened them.

"The Auror overseeing your probation is already inside, setting things up for your stay. The moment I close these gates behind you, a ward will be enacted which will keep you from leaving the property. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Your probation officer will be free to come and go as, and when, she wishes—"

"She?" Antonin couldn't stop himself from asking with an arched brow.

The wizard beside him snickered and shook his head. "Yes, and she'll have a field day with it if she thinks you judge whether or not someone can  _be_  an Auror based on their genitals, so you might want to watch that."

Antonin winced and nodded. "Don't be a chauvinist. Think I can manage that."

"You'd be surprised what she considers chauvinistic. As I was saying, she can come and go as, and when, she pleases, so you might want to do yourself a favor and not get too comfortable at any given time."

Narrowing his eyes, Antonin leaned back a little, getting a better look at the other man. "You're being awfully helpful."

"Not especially. Just . . . she's a bit of a handful, that one. Can't help but pity you."

That did not sound good. Not. At. All. Nodding once more, Antonin stepped through the gates and listened, waiting for them to close and lock behind him. He could feel the quick, static ripple of energy as that ward the Auror had mentioned kicked on.

With a deep breath, he started along the cracked and pitted path toward the house. He could see structures in the distance within the line of the property's fence. Fantastic, even more for him to do. He'd known this was going to be more work than even the Ministry imagined—given what he would, or would not do to accomplish the necessary tasks—but he hadn't expected to glimpse a broken down barn and a greenhouse that seemed to have every pane shattered.

As he reached the rundown front porch under that fractured stone awning, he noticed the front doors were open ajar. Frowning, he wondered if his probation officer could really be so terrible if the woman was scatterbrained enough to forget to properly close a door behind her.

Slipping inside, he turned, soundly closing the doors and then faced into the house. Merlin's fucking beard, the place was a mess. Though, if he were wholly honest, the structural integrity of the house's interior appeared in remarkable condition after all this time, but there was clear weathering and aging, layers upon layers of dust, cracked moldings, chipped sills . . . . He prayed by some miracle that at least the plumbing worked.

"In here," a female voice rang out, clearly having heard the doors shutting through the quiet of the house.

Antonin arched a brow. Was it his imagination that she sounded a bit familiar? Not someone he knew well. A passing acquaintance?Perhaps someone he's simply held a conversation with once?

Darting his gaze about the main floor as he crossed to the doorway where he'd heard her, he peeked in to find a study. Most of the furniture was draped by cloth, but she'd removed the one that had covered the desk. Her back to him, she sorted through a box before her.

She didn't appear all that familiar. Her long, golden-brown hair was pulled into a tight braid down her back, and her petite frame didn't seem to remind him of anyone he knew. If anything, she seemed far too diminutive to be as frightful as the other Auror had indicated.

"Hullo?" he said, that singular word cautious.

She turned to face him, her chestnut eyes mirthful as a smirk curved her lips. That was when he realized who this was. Harry Potter's Mudblood. The one who'd survived his curse that night at the Department of Mysteries, the one he'd been tortured into remembering after that disastrous effort at that tacky Muggle café.  _Twice_ she'd failed to die at his hand.

And now . . . .

"Good afternoon, Mr. Dolohov. My name is Hermione Granger, and I'll be the probation officer overseeing your work here."

He was unable to keep his jaw from going slack as he stared back at her.  _Oh, downside, there you are,_ he thought in a sour tone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

By the time he finally got his voice to work, she'd turned back to the box on the desk. "Why do I get the feeling your being here isn't a coincidence?"

She spoke as she continued rooting through whatever was before her. "Because as much as I adore having a negative opinion on Death Eaters, you're _not_ an idiot, Dolohov."

"You're setting me up."

The witch whirled to face him, a sneer he could picture on a Malfoy lighting her features. "Setting you up? Oh, no, sir! I am, in fact, watching out for everyone's wellbeing."

"Everyone?" he echoed.

Hermione nodded.

"That include me?"

She almost burst out laughing at the way his brows had shot up as he asked that. Oh, she'd thought out all his possible responses to her presence here, and this had fallen inline with one of the discussions she'd already imagined having. "Of course."

Antonin folded his arms across his chest. "Enlighten me. Please?"

Look at that! He truly wasn't an idiot. "Mr. Dolohov," she started, so slow the pace of the syllables actually seemed pained, "you must understand, the Wizarding world is familiar with your face, and equally familiar with your crimes. It is my job to assure the world at large that if they see you out there,  _free_  among them, you have paid your debt to society. To do otherwise only increases the risk of those you've harmed, or the loved ones of those you've harmed, potentially seeking some sort of vigilante justice. You get your freedom, no one questions the New Ministry's wisdom in this program, I maybe get a promotion for handling your case with an aplomb not expected of one who's suffered at your hands. Everybody wins."

Those dark eyes of his narrowed at her. She could tell he didn't trust her, or a word she said, as far as he could throw Orias Mulciber. Not that it mattered very much, as he had literally no choice about her presence there, or her position in authority over him.

"Anyway," she said, holding her wand between her hands like a riding crop, making him wonder if she wouldn't be above actually striking him with it, "we'll start with a tour of the grounds. Follow me. Oh, and grab that parchment and quill, you'll need to keep notes."

He bit back a disgruntled sound. She expected him to write with a ruddy quill and ink bottle while they were on the move? He snatched up the items, staring daggers at her all the while. It only made him more displeased with the situation that she seemed completely unfazed by his visible anger.

The little dollop of a witch scooted past him and headed for the door. Though he knew carrying out the act would not be worth the punishment that would follow, he did wonder for a moment as he turned on his heel to trail behind her, just how long it would take to wring the life out of her.

Flexing his fingers around the objects he held as they walked along the ground floor toward a curving staircase, he held in a sigh at the sheer visceral joy it would bring him to go through with that imagining. Seeming completely oblivious to her prisoner's thoughts—although, he had the oddest feeling that she knew precisely what was going on in his head and was enjoying that he would not make it a reality—she once more adopted that cheerful tone from when she'd greeted him as she guided him about.

So very many rooms on the second floor, alone, she pointed out what needed to be done in each place, not seeming to take into account if he'd had enough time to note everything before moving onto the next. At some point, she halted midstride.

Arching a brow, he couldn't help his curiosity. "What?"

Hermione turned her head this way and that, looking everywhere within her eyeline. "Did you just hear something?"

_Aside from you prattling orders at me, you little . . . ?_ "No," he said, opting for honesty over the answer that would likely get him zapped with a stinging hex.

"I thought . . . ." She frowned, shaking her head. "Never mind, probably just rats or something."

Antonin blanched at that, but kept his mouth shut as she led him back down the stairs. She didn't need to know he wasn't particularly fond of vermin. All right, not fond of was a dramatic understatement. His loathing of them bordered on a phobia, he was sure. He'd nearly killed that sniveling little shit Pettigrew on sheer principle of his animagus form more than once.

"Aren't there more floors?"

She nodded as they reached the landing. "Of course, but I figure you'll start on the first two, and when those are finished, or at least near-finished, we can see what's to be done for the upper floors. When the main house is complete, then we'll move to the structures further out on the grounds. No point giving you more work than you can manage."

He nearly tripped over his own two feet as he gaped in surprise at the back of her head. "That's actually oddly gracious of you."

"Not especially so," she said, glancing back over her shoulder at him. "It just reminds me you'll be stuck at this a while."

"You're sort of a vicious little thing, aren't you?"

She pivoted on her heel to face him. Leaning close, she held his gaze with narrowed eyes as she murmured, "You've no idea."

Antonin would let her kill him before admitting aloud that for a moment there, he'd genuinely been frightened of her. "Lead on," was all he said in response, his voice level.

Nodding, she turned away and started along the rooms on the ground floor. They were starting to lose daylight, and she began lighting lanterns in key places as they went.

This level of the house was almost larger than the architecture of the building seemed to permit. He was utterly lost by the time they ended in a dead-end corridor.

"And here," she said, walking to that dead end and holding one of the lanterns up as she lit it, the glow illuminating the still painting of a dark-haired woman. "This is the Lady of the House."

Antonin flicked his gaze from the very real witch standing before him to the one in the Muggle portrait, and back. "You're joking."

"Absolutely not. This is Selyce Avery, she was the wife of Minister Alexius Avery while the family was still involved with the local church." Hermione looked up at the portrait. Something about it was unnerving in a way that made the pit of her stomach feel icy. "Proud figure, wasn't she? Anyway, you'll want to polish the frame once every week or two. I do suggest doing that while it's still light out."

He frowned as she moved past him to start back along the corridor toward the heart of the house. "And why is that?"

She looked back at him and then tipped around him to look back at the portrait. Nodding at it, she waited for him to follow her gaze before she answered. "Well, look at her. There's . . . I dunno, something  _odd_  about that portrait. Feels worse in the dark, is all."

Realizing she was standing a bit too close to him for either of their comfort, she leaned away as she shook her head. "Sorry, forgot who I was talking to. Gave you advice like you're a person with feelings."

"Oy!" Antonin snapped, unable to stop himself, now. He'd had all the verbal jabs he was going to take for one day.

Her brows shot up and her grip reflexively tightened on her wand.

"I may be many things, Auror Granger, and you may hate me for many reasons, but I'm  _not_ some emotionless beast just following after you, a' right?"

"I know that, Mr. Dolohov." She straightened up, speaking through clenched teeth. "In fact, I know it so very well, because my hatred of you is not without reason. You know what I remember of your emotions, sir? I remember a man who didn't hesitate to launch an attack spell that was supposed to be lethal at a sixteen year old girl. I remember a man who had a sick, triumphant gleam in his eye when he thought he was going to slaughter me, and the boy I'd loved, and whisk my best friend off to be murdered by his odious Dark Lord before I made it to my eighteenth birthday!"

Antonin didn't know quite what was happening, but something in his chest seemed to break as he listened to her. Actually  _listened_. Listened to her earnest words surely and more closely than he'd listened to anything else she'd said to him since she'd first introduced herself earlier that afternoon. Dear God, she was right. Pure-blood, blood-traitor, Mudblood . . . . Voldemort'd had them all so . . . full of his vision, so enamored of his ideals, that things like age had ceased to matter. There had been no child or adult, there had  _only_  been their side and their enemies.

Oblivious, entirely, to his epiphany, she swallowed hard, continuing, "So, yes, I'm perfectly aware you have emotions, Mr. Dolohov, but you'll excuse me if I have trouble believing any of them aren't something motivated by deplorable means."

He nodded, his features carefully blank and his voice a low tumble of sound as he said, "Fair enough."

Something in his non-expression, something in his tone, struck her. Something . . . no, no. She couldn't believe a single word she'd said had mattered to this man.

"Well, good." Returning his nod, she pivoted on her heel and started leading him through the house, once more.

They made their way through the kitchens, where she pointed out the stocked, stasis-charmed pantry, and a first-floor lavatory and washroom that was the only one in complete working order for his 'needs' until he'd restored more of the house to a functional state, at which time the washrooms and bathrooms on the other floors would be restored, as well. Finally, they wound their way back to the study where they'd began.

"Okay," she started, gesturing for him to step closer, peering into the box beside her. "You've got candles, should the lanterns interspersed through the house not be enough, or if there proves any issue with them, you've got a specially-formulated Floo powder that will permit you to contact me at the Ministry or home, should there be any sort of emergency—I have charmed the Floo in my office, and at home, so you'll be connected directly to me and not waste any powder unnecessarily. Changes of robes, you're going to need them, basic toiletries—towels, soaps, and well," she paused, crinkling the bridge of her nose as she indicated the rolls of tissue in the box, "you know."

He held in a smirk. Her considering he had emotions that weren't negative or harmful had clearly been far enough for her for one day; she probably didn't dare imagine he did something as plainly human as using a bathroom!

"And finally, a provisional wand. It's charmed so that it will only respond to commands that will help with your work."

His dark eyes showed white all around as he stared at the implement she held out to him. "Are there . . . ?" He forced a gulp down his throat. "Are there no Muggle tools to work with, instead?"

Hermione was taken aback by his question. A Death Eater requesting to do something in a Muggle fashion? She could only stare back at him, blinking rapidly as she tried to process his inquiry.

"I, um," she started, stammering a bit. "I can get them here tomorrow for you, if you prefer, but honestly, this wand is—"

"I prefer. I'll be doing all the work by hand." He nodded, possibly shocking her as he touched his hand to hers to push the wand away—he wouldn't even touch the thing! "No magic."

She lowered her gaze to his fingers on hers and he just as quickly dropped his hand to his side. He was a pure-blood wizard, someone raised to believe magic _belonged_  to him and those like him. What could've possibly happened that made him so—?

Hermione cut short her own thought. She did not want to know what motivated him to feel or decide  _anything_. "All right," she said, setting the wand back inside the box. "I'll leave it here, just in case, and tomorrow I'll bring . . . Muggle tools. At such time, you'll inspect the selection and inform me of anything else you might require for the restoration. Good enough?"

He seemed to be trying to keep an eye on the wand, even as it sat in the depths of the box, clearly out of his line of sight. "Yes."

"Right, well, then I will see you tomorrow, bright and early." She shrugged, clearing her throat a little. "In the meanwhile, I suggest you get some food in your stomach, and a good night's rest. You've got a lot of work to ahead of you, Mr. Dolohov."

As she moved around him, she sensed him drifting to follow her. "No, no, I'll see myself out."

Antonin hadn't even been certain why he'd bothered to try seeing her to the door. Just a slip of manners rearing its head.

Returning his attention to the box, he glared down at the wand. He could almost feel it—could almost see himself doing it. Reaching inside, slipping his fingers around the slim, polished wood. The sensation of magic rippling through him as he commanded a charm into existence . . . .

Forcing a gulp down his throat, Antonin shook his head. Looking down at his hands, he saw—gratefully—that one hand was empty and the other still clutched the writing implements and parchment he'd been using to note the repairs. For a moment that imagining had been so strong, he honestly would not have been surprised to find the wand in his free hand.

Shaking his head at himself, he reached into the box and pulled one of the towels over the wand, hiding it from his view.

* * *

Hermione felt acutely aware of her surroundings as she stepped from the study. She cast a cursory glance about the shadowy, sparsely-illuminated recesses of the ground floor, somehow thinking she might actually see something scuttling off into a corner.

She wasn't a jumpy person by nature, but this place was . . . . There was something not quite sane about it, was the only way to put it that made sense in her mind.

Nearing the front doors, she halted, some black thing shifted within the darkness from the corner of her eye. She moved her illuminated wand with her as she turned her head, looking in the direction of that shifting motion.

Nothing.  _Hermione, you idiot, of_ course  _its nothing_. Still, she could not shake the feeling there was something just beyond the edge of her awareness. Something in the shadows.

Something watching her.

No, no. She was tired, she was unnerved because of those strangely soul-baring moments with Dolohov. She was worked up and imagining things.

Yes, that had to be what was causing this, because she could not fathom any other  _sane_ reason that she felt as though something she could not see was trailing her steps as she stepped through the doors and crossed the porch. Something she could not touch followed her all the way to the gates, screaming silently in rage and a million other equally dark emotions as she slipped out and removed herself from grounds of Avery Manse.

She glanced back at the massive house in spite of herself. She could see from the lantern light through the kitchen window that Dolohov was doing as she'd suggested and fixing himself a meal.

Not that she cared if what she'd just felt following her might be more than her imagination. Hermione gave herself a sobering shake and turned away. Because she didn't care. Didn't care if it was more than her imagination, if it was something that might slink back to the house to follow him, instead.

Didn't care one little bit.


End file.
